


something borrowed, something blue

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Series: dropofrum sampler [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, love me some drunky sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: The morning after Robb's wedding, Sansa wakes up in a bed that'sdefinitelynot her own, to a blinding headache, missing underwear and somebody's hand on her left tit....this is clearly not her day.





	something borrowed, something blue

Sansa wakes up with a throbbing head, a tongue that feels fuzzy and thick in her mouth, and blinks blearily at the alarm clock.

This is not her alarm clock.  
Okay.

Breathe in, breathe ou-  
_Is that a hand on her-_

There is a hand on her boob.

There's-  
It's-

Okay.

 _Don't panic,_ she tells herself severely. _Don't. You got yourself naked and into bed with an aggressive cuddler, you aren't allowed to panic, Stark._

God. What _happened_ last night?

She peeks cautiously at the hand - broad, a little calloused, a dusting of dark hair on his fingers - and attempts to shift forward. His hand tightens.

A shock of heat zings down to her belly, and almost unconsciously, her toes curl. A flash of blurred memory takes her breath away.

_Dark laughter, her fingers running through soft, jet-black hair, the warm rush of his breath against her navel, the hot, slick glide of his tongue down to her-_

Sansa sucks in a sharp breath at that. _God_.

The best sex of her life, probably, and she can barely remember it. _Pathetic_ , Stark. Truly.

(Her as yet unidentified bed-partner snuffles into the back of her neck, tucking her bum closer against his groin, and- oh _god_ , she needs to get out before things get, ah, 'interesting', a little too quickly.)

She glances at the alarm clock again, the green readout screaming 1:32 PM, and realizes why it looks familiar. There's a plush little wolf behind it, brow scrunched down adorably and howling at the ceiling.

She'd picked that out, Sansa remembers, late one winter night at Archie’s. It had made her think of him, growly and fuzzy and ridiculous-looking, and she’d realized with a guilty start that she hadn't got him anything for Christmas yet.

That’s… That’s definitely Jon's.

Which means the alarm clock's also Jon's.

Which means, and there's a faint chorus of _ohcrapohcrap_ banging out the back of her head, the hand is also-

 _"Fuck!"_ she yelps, prying his fingers off, and scrambling out of the bed, realizing a little too late that her ankles have somehow gotten tangled in the duvet and falling arse-first off the mattress.

"Owie," Sansa mumbles, pain ricocheting up her spine, eyes watering, as a dark, tousled bedhead peers in wide-eyed shock over the edge of the bed.

He gapes at her, legs splayed up, balanced on her elbows and rather blatantly naked.

 _"Sansa?"_ He blinks, as the color drains from his stupidly beautiful face. "Oh, shit."

* * *

 

 

Look, it's not exactly, you know.  
Encouraging.

Her tits are fantastic, and on full display, for crying out loud.

There are better reactions to have than 'Oh, shit.'

* * *

 

 

Maybe this story needs context.

* * *

 

 

There was a wedding.

That’s… That’s really all the context anyone needs, because Sansa was the maid of honor, Jon was the best man, and Robb and Margaery made the snuzzliest, cutest, most sappy-eyed couple in the history of forever and Sansa had been…

She’d gotten really weepy, alright? They were so _happy_ , and Sansa was so _single_ , and Jon was wearing this _tux_ that made his bum look _incredible_ , like just.

Bounce-a-quarter-off-that-ass incredible. It’s a wonder she managed to stay upright throughout the whole ceremony.

And there had been a moment, right in the beginning, right before Robb came up to the waiting priest, and her and Jon’s gaze had locked across the aisle, grey eyes bright, all wind-tousled hair and shy, little-boy smile, and her heart had _flipped_ -

So whose fault is it **really** that she drank too much at the open bar - the Tyrells were filthily, disgustingly, _gloriously_ rich, Robb had married so, _so_   _well_ \- and kicked off her heels to grind with Yara every time the DJ had the blessed good sense to blast Beyoncé?

Jon _Snow’s_ fault, that’s who.

* * *

 

 

“Sansa? Sansa, did you finish that _entire_ bottle?”

“Ooooh, nice _-hic-_ guess, Sherlock,” Sansa sneered at the three Jon Snows peering down at her, where she was sprawled against the wall in one of the tiny, hidden corridors leading off from the ballroom of the Marriott. There’s an empty bottle of shiraz lying on the floor beside her, and her bridesmaid's gown, a pretty grey slip dress that Margaery had bestowed upon the girls like a fairy godmother, has ridden up enough to reveal an indecent amount of thigh. Yara’s long abandoned Sansa, the traitorous bitch. Apparently, one of the bridesmaids - there were nine of them, the hen party had been mental - was in college and wanted to ‘experiment’.

Sansa poked up at the Jon on the left. “Are you going to _-hic-_ ask me if I’m a ginger next?”

The Jons wraps their hand around her wrist, warm and a little calloused, and adjust her finger to point at the Jon in the middle. “Here,” he says quietly, but he’s grinning as he comes down on a knee next to her. “I’m over here, love.”

Her heart does something funny in her chest and Sansa scowls at him, accusatory. There’s a faint tinkle of music filtering from the ballroom, something that sounds suspiciously like Sinatra, the low roar of sound of a party in full swing, but she can barely notice any of that when he’s so close, bow tie undone, top buttons opened, jacket slung over his shoulder. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and there’s a faint sheen of perspiration that makes him glow a little bit golden in the dim light filtering into the hallway.

The hand around her wrist strokes her palm idly, sending warmth chasing down her veins, molten-hot. His callouses catch on her soft skin, and he’s close enough for her to pick to flecks of dark, ocean blue in his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble. He’s never looked so… _touchable_.

“So,” he says, a self-deprecating grin curling up the side of his mouth, “Sansa Stark... What’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

It’s so unexpected, she snorts out loud, giggling, and he smiles back at that, eyes crinkling up. Such a _dork_ , honestly.

He’s not even her _type_.

* * *

 

 

Fair’s fair, Sansa supposes, as she snags the bedsheets to wrap herself up, red-cheeked, and Jon dives for a pillow, slapping it down on his lap, sitting cross-legged. If she’s going to be horrifyingly naked with her brother’s best friend, well, he can suffer too.

Sansa absently notices that he has really nice toes.

 _...literally what the fuck Stark, his toes?!_ Sansa swallows a sigh.

There’s a moment of awkward shuffling before Sansa settles on the swivel chair by Jon’s desk, and tries not to get distracted by his… _everything_.

The abs are.

A Problem.

A capital letter Problem, even.

“How did we- Um.” She fiddles with the edge of the bedsheet, near her ankle. “How did we get here?”

“You were drunk?” Jon says hesitantly, running his hands through his hair. There’s a purple bruise just below his ear. And another, below his collarbone. Sansa gulps, nervously.

 _ **She**_ did that? That’s not-  
Sansa Stark _doesn’t_.  
Joffrey had had a whole bucket list of things that Sansa did wrong in bed, and ‘cold fish who just fucking _lies there_ ’ were about half of them.

"And then I got drunk. I think? And um… This happened.”

“Hang on.” She frowns, focusing on his words with a force of will. Something here doesn’t compute. " ** _You_** got drunk?”

* * *

 

 

"Are you cold?" Jon asks carefully, and Sansa rolls her eyes.

Jon managed to talk her out of spending the rest of her life in that dark little corridor, hiding from the world, and move out to the veranda that hugs the circumference of the hotel. She tries to remember her breathing as she props herself up against the balcony's railing, twisting 'round to look up at him. Night has settled over the North, and behind her, miles below the Marriott's vantage point high in the mountains, the suburbs of Wintertown unfurl in lines of mercury-silver streetlights, the odd car zipping down lonely roads, houses lit golden and warm in the distance.

She probably should be cold, but the wine is still bubbling in her blood, mellow and hot. Sansa can't feel her ears.

"A little cold," Sansa lies, and Jon steps behind her, draping his jacket over her shoulders and briefly running his hands down her arms. The fabric is still warm from his body, trailing that faint scent of cinnamon and something woodsy, warm. His breath falls against the side of her bare neck, and long wisps of hair escaping her updo flutter in its wake.

A shiver rushes down her spine; this time, the weather's got nothing to do with it.

He's so close, for that long, electric moment, she'd barely need to shift back until they were pressed together, back to front.

But then he shifts away, hands retreating back into their pockets and she twists around to face him once more, tilting her neck back to see his jaw tauten in a way that make her thighs press together, as his nostrils flare.

When their eyes meet, heat jolts down to her belly, and her throat goes suddenly dry. His eyes are black, drowning in darkness, circled in grey. Her breath goes a little ragged, her heart a little haywire.

God, she wants to _lick_ his jaw.

He drags his eyes away from her, and back towards the ballroom.

"You know what?" he says, and Sansa doesn't think it's her imagination at all now, the way his voice is rough, low, scraping its way out his throat. "A drink sounds fantastic. Keep me company, Stark?"

* * *

 

 

Their eyes go wide as they recall what happened next, Sansa blushing splotchy and pink all over and Jon's ears turning a bright, hilarious red.

"Hey," Jon chokes out, wiggling out of bed, pillow still firmly against his crotch. "Let's, uh- Let's go get breakfast, yeah? There's a Starbucks just down the road." He snags a second pillow, slaps it against - oh god, the world's _best_ butt, holy shit, she put her hands on that butt and now she _can't remember it._

_HOW ISN'T THIS A NATIONAL EMERGENCY?_

Sansa nods mutely, swallowing hard, and stares unseeingly at Jon's back as he shuffles down to the loo, long, pink-red welts down his back, and-

* * *

 

 

Jon's a lightweight, and Sansa grew up with the Karstarks and the Umbers and the fucking Mormonts, drinking the lot of them right under the table every holiday season, so it might start off with her being tipsy and him being dead sober, but it ends with both of them back in that corridor Jon had dragged her out of, his jacket forgotten on the floor, the thin straps of her dress around her hips, three of his buttons undone and his thigh between her legs, letting her grind shamelessly against him while he pinched a nipple through her bra, sucking deep, purple bruises into the side of her neck.

Sansa's fairly certain she's about to meet her lord and Saviour any moment now.

" _God_ , Sansa," he's muttering, his hands clamped in an iron hold around her hips, his forehead resting against hers, sneaking kisses in between, hot and urgent. "If I _knew_ \- If I- fuck, _fuck."_

 _'If you knew what?'_ Sansa means to ask, but then he hoists her up against the wall, and whispers, " _Fuck_ sweetheart, I want you to ride my cock just like that," slipping his hand into her panties, parting her open, and rubbing tight quick circles right- right _there-_

Her hands scrabble for purchase against the slick white fabric of his shirt, before threading her fingers through his hair, the curls soft, thick, damp with sweat, her head thumping back against the wall as her eyes squeeze shut.

"Fuck, fuck, Jon, baby _please_ ," she's whimpering, moaning, soft and aching for release.

His mouth finds the soft spot just behind her ear, stubble scraping her skin, her body straining against his, heat raging beneath her skin. But then he stills, his other hand cupping the side of her face, and he presses the softest, gentlest kiss against the corner of her mouth, and murmurs, "Sansa, love... Come for me."

Her heart _hurts_ , but her pussy's throbbing around his blunt, broad fingers, still thrusting into her, slow and easy, thumb circling her clit over and over-

There's Beyoncé still filtering into the corridor, and shiraz rushing hot in her blood, and his eyes are meltingly dark when they meet hers, and, and-

She closes her eyes; she sees _stars._

* * *

 

 

The sound of the shower turning on jolts Sansa from her seat, bedsheets still wrapped firmly around her torso, as she hunts down her clothes.

It's a treasure hunt played in reverse; her underwear's missing entirely, a little black scrap of lace and silk she'd paid far too much for, her bra's slung haphazardly over a lampshade on the bedside table that she snags with pink cheeks.

She finds her dress in a silvery pool of silk, gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight in the living room - he'd kissed her there, rutting against her weeping cunt with frantic abandon, moonlight streaming into the room and turning his eyes impossibly darker, the metal teeth of his zipper digging into her thighs, his hands digging ruthlessly into the swell of her ass, whispering promises into her ear, teeth digging into the soft skin of her earlobe.

* * *

 

 

_'So pretty, so sweet, Sansa, God, I've wanted this for so- so- You gonna come for me darling? Come for me again?'_

_Sansa had thrashed in her grip, eyes squeezed shut, his words like fire in her blood, every nerve ending sparking with electricity as she blindly sought his dirty, beautiful mouth, stubble scraping against her chin as she slanted her lips over his, messy and slick-hot._

_'Don't stop, Jon, Jon-'_  
'Yeah, darling, say my name, say-'  
'So long, I've wanted to-'  
'Me too, me too, darling, darling girl, you're so beautiful, you're so- please, Sansa, please-'

And _yes_ , on her lips, _yes yes yes-_

* * *

 

 

His shirt, lying discarded by her dress, white on grey, tell a story of their own.

Sansa bends down to pick up the dress, bedsheet slipping down to her waist, rubbing the pale gray silk between her fingers as something in her heart catches, a cold hook sinking into her chest.

There's a harsh lump growing in her throat, an _awful_ , paralyzing hurt, and a memory... A memory tickling the edges of her mind.

_Something he'd said..._

* * *

 

 

They'd reached for each other again and again, all through the night, as if compelled by some strange external force, some kind of cold awareness that a clock was running down the time they had together, and the last time had been early in the morning, sun cresting over the horizon, the sky beyond the gauzy curtains in his room shot with coral and tangerine and gold, achingly pretty.

It had been slow, both of them tangled in the sheets and in each other, exhausted, eyes half-lidded, fingers trembling when she caught hers in his, brushing closed-mouthed kisses, foreheads pressed together as he set the pace, slow, slow, so easy.

"Stay," he'd whispered hoarsely, as if to himself. "Stay with me."

Her eyes had flown open at that, to see him, a horrible, naked sadness in his eyes, a palm cupping the side of her face.

"Stay," he'd said again, harsher, against her lips, as sunlight crept into the room, and the world around them turned the palest shade of gold. "Please, I need you to-"

"I'll stay," she had whispered, between kisses. "I'll stay as long as you wa-"

"Always."

Her heart had stopped then, fingers shaking violently as she threaded them through his hair. "Always?" she asked weakly, and then his thumb drifted over her nipple, over her heart, and he replied, "Always."

To Sansa, in that moment, it sounded like a promise.

* * *

She pushes the door to the bathroom open; he'd left it unlocked, she realizes numbly, as the bedsheet pools around her feet, and and she steps into the billowing humidity of the bathroom on shaky feet, the steam condensing on her bare, cool skin, her heart so fast it feels like it's about to beat right out of her chest.

His eyes are closed, one hand braced on the wall beneath the shower head, water beating down against his hair, down the length of his back, turning his skin glistening. His shoulders are hunched and his other hand hands by his side, and in every line of his body, every line that Sansa aches to discover, there is something like defeat that reverberates in this tiny room, that makes her hurt.

"Jon," she chokes out, and his eyes whip to the side to see her. His eyes flicker over her body briefly, and she feels wetness whisper damply in her sex, rooted to the ground by his gaze.

"Sansa?" He sounds hoarse, rough, sandpaper dry. "What..."

"Last night," she rasps, "you said... You said you wanted me to..." She swallows dryly, and all the voices in her head are screaming for her to _leaveleaveLEAVE!_ before she makes a bigger fool of herself, but she has to- she _has_ to.

"You said you wanted me to stay. Do you... Do you rem-"

"I remember." His jaw is clenched, so tight it must hurt. "I didn't know if- I remember, Sansa."

"Did you mean what y-"

"I meant every word." His eyes blaze and Sansa can feel it, the heat of him. "Every word."

There are tears blurring her eyes, and it's so hard, not to want this, when she's wanted it for so- for so long-

"Why?" she asks, a broken little syllable. "Wh-"

"Because I love you." The palm rested against the wall turns to a fist, and there's something like anger that edges his words. "I love you, and I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable or-"

She walks forward, into the shower, sinks her fingers into the rough-wet silk of his hair, and kisses him, hard and supple, all teeth and tongue, a fierce, harsh, unforgiving kiss.

"I love you," she snarls. "You unbelievable fucking mor-"

"I-" He draws back, blinking, eyelashes turned spiky in the water, long dark strands of hair plastered over his forehead. "You- What?"

Sansa laughs, and kisses him again, chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, just because she can. She kisses him like they're fifteen and they're in the pouring rain, and like they're nineteen and skipping the last dance at prom, and like they are now, a little bit stupid and a little bit late. She kisses him all the ways she wished she'd kissed him before, and when they tear apart, gasping for breath, the water slowly going cold, goosebumps rising on their skin, and euphoria burning bright-hot in their veins, she says it, _again_ and again and again, a thousand times for a thousand days they've missed, a thousand days yet to come.

_'I love you. I love you. I love you.'_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY DRAFTS FOLDER FOR 300 YEARS AND I DONT. I CANT FIX IT. ITS TRASH BUT ITS NOT MY PROBLEM ANYMORE I'M TIRED AND I NEED SLEEP BYE. 
> 
> (ps sorry for making y'all read this honest i just FRICKING want to DIE.) 
> 
> come fangirl with me on tumblr @dropofrum.


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